You Gotta Give Them Hope
by OtakuLibra
Summary: The struggle for LGBT rights, told in nine voices, from the early 1990s to the late 23rd century. They all have a stake in this; they all have a story. Title comes from a quote by Harvey Milk. Gen, OCs, eventual Kirk/Spock and Uhura/Chapel.
1. Chapter 1

**The idea for this story came a couple months ago, after I had a conversation with a friend about politics/social issues and fanfiction. I think it's hard to really bring up social issues in a fandom like this, because it's in the future. You can't really know what the problems are going to be. But, as a huge fan of slash in Trek fandom, I wanted to know what kind of LGBT issues would be going on in the 23rd century. This fic, after a /long/ time spent researching (much love to Memory Alpha for teaching me), is the speculative answer to that question. I have nine chapters planned, each with a different character, going from the Eugenics Wars of the 90s to the crew of the _Enterprise_ in the 2280s. Enjoy, and any feedback would be /much/ appreciated. **

**1990**

"A monumental discovery, Dr. Kochava," Don Haley says, shaking her hand. He's dressed much too casually, his sleeves rolled up and a small rainbow bracelet on his right wrist. An activist, and one of the younger crowd at that.

"Thank you."

He smiles, big and bright and innocent. He reminds Arin of her son, how he looked when he walked into Tel Aviv University. The way he waved, grin nearly splitting his face in two. He had studied anthropology and history in their Institute of Jewish Studies. Lev had never been like her, she who was so obsessed with science, with her research. Lev loved people, loved them in a way Arin never understood until now.

"Your work will be a great help to us," Don continues, speaking Hebrew, but heavily accented. "And… A credit to Lev's memory," he says in a softer voice.

Arin plasters on a smile, giving Don's hand a squeeze before letting go, pressing her fingers into the soft fabric of her skirt over her thighs. She straightens her suit jacket, unsure of what to say next. "Yes," she murmurs. "I believe he would be very proud of what we have accomplished. Thank you."

Don looks as if he wants to say more, but instead he gives her a sympathetic look and drifts back into the crowd.

Arin heads straight for the bar for a glass of wine.

"You must know," comes a voice from behind her, "This will not be well received."

She smiles at him, the smile she has been practicing tactfully all evening. "Uzi Even," she says, shaking his hand.

"But," he continues, hands dropping to his sides, "I welcome it."

"Thank you, Dr. Even," Arin says. "I hope that all people will one day come to share your opinion."

He pauses, head cocked to the side just slightly. Arin can almost see him thinking. "As do I," he says, finally. "And I do not wish to discourage you, Doctor. You have done much to bring acceptance to the LGBT community, not only in Israel but in the world, and the discovery of this gene will go far to helping the world understand us. However… I must warn you that it will not be well received, not yet."

He glances around the room at all the intellectuals, the professors, the politicians. "Here, we are free to speak of such things without fear. The world will be another matter. People are difficult to convince."

"I understand, Dr. Even," Arin says, taking a long sip of her wine. "Trust that I will do all I can to create such a world. It is my goal that all people might be loved and accepted."

"A worthy endeavor, Dr. Kochava."

"Thank you."

**1988**

They won't let her into the ICU at first. She has to sit, in the hard, fake leather chairs of the waiting room, surrounded by doctors and noise and an awful, sterile smell. She tries to flick through a magazine, skims absently through Uzi Even's newest article, on the quantum properties of helium clusters. Arin is a biologist, not a chemist, but she tries to read it because Uzi Even is one of Lev's favorite professors and it is as close as she can get to her son right now.

By the time the nurse comes to get her, Arin is falling asleep, curled uncomfortably in her chair. The soft hand on her shoulder brings her back to the waking world with a painful jerk, and Arin sits up ram-rod straight as the nurse tells her that Lev is dead.

An aneurysm. He was twenty-seven, only a few years out of college. Arin sobs, there in the waiting room, curls up tight around herself in that awful chair. Cries for all the things her son accomplished and for all the things he would never do. For all the work, the work he loved so much, that would be left unfinished.

Arin calls Jadon, Lev's boyfriend. He brings her coffee and they cry together. Jadon goes in to see him, before they take his body away. Arin can't.

**1986**

When Arin comes home, Lev is sitting at the table, fingers running through his dark, curly hair. She sits next to him, leaving her bag leaning against the wall. He leans against her, head on her shoulder, as he did when he was a child.

"They say we are not normal," he tells her, voice low and sad. "Yesterday, they threatened Jadon. I cannot… I do not understand, Mother. Professor Even says to leave it be, that they are simply acting upon ignorance. He says that our work with Don's group is enough. But…" He trails off, voice almost a whisper. Arin wraps her arm around his shoulder, holding him close.

"But you are normal, my son," she soothes. "You are normal and you are beautiful and I am so proud of you. We must simply make them see."

"How?"

Arin smiles. "The only way I know how."

"Mother, it has never been scientifically proven that—"

"_Yet_," Arin insists, brushing through Lev's unruly hair. "I will prove it. You will see. And then they will have nothing to say to you."

She stands, determined. "Come," she says, pulling up on her son's arm. "Help me make dinner. You are so skinny, Lev! You and your always studying. I was the same way in university. Your father had to bring me food in the lab to get me to eat."

Lev laughs, that laugh she loves so much, and follows.

**1990 **

"You've caused quite an uproar in the medical community, Dr. Kochava," Uzi says, motioning for her to sit. "And I have never seen a group of university students more excited. Don's group is doing a wonderful job here in Tel Aviv."

Arin sinks down into the proffered chair, large and comfortable on her aching back. "I hear he is moving to Jerusalem," she says, sipping her tea.

"Yes, and I hope all God's help go with him. And with you, Doctor. I hear you are going to Europe, then to America?"

Arin nods. "I have been asked to speak at so many places. I think this is progress. I hope so."

"As do I," Uzi agrees, taking a drink of his own tea. "It will take time for people to become accustomed to this, as it does for all things, but I think you are right."

Arin looks out the window at the campus. There is still a part of her that aches for Lev, that burns every time she realizes he will never walk these halls again. It is what keeps her going, most days. What makes her sure that she must succeed.

**1992**

She switches off the news and calls Don and Jadon. Jadon arrives first, knocking fast and anxious at her door. He hugs her tight, doesn't want an explanation, not yet. Not until she's ready. She is glad to know that, if nothing else, Lev picked a good boy. It is hollow consolation, but it is all she has, sometimes.

Don rings the doorbell, just as Jadon has gotten Arin to sit down, stop pacing. He pours Arin a glass of wine and sits next to her as she tells them about Project Ubermensch.

"They used my research," she says at the end. "They're using my research for genetic engineering."

Jadon squeezes her hand. No one says anything for a long time.

"What do you think it means?" Don asks, finally, and from the way Jadon's grip loosens Arin knows it is the question they both wanted to ask.

"I don't know," Arin admits, letting go of Jadon's hand. "They… On the news, they spoke of it as a good thing, as progress. They say it will make all our lives better." She looks down at her hands, clasped on her lap. "Perhaps, it might have stopped the aneurysm, had they developed it earlier. And I cannot help but think… I do not want any mother to go through that. But still... I wonder about this. If it is truly for our benefit."

Don shakes his head. "I do not know." He stands, puts a hand on Arin's shoulder. "My flight back to Jerusalem leaves early tomorrow," he says by way of apology and goodbye. Arin nods.

"Be safe, and God be with you."

"Thank you, Doctor."


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow, it has been /way/ too long since I last updated here. I promise I'm still alive, but between life and livejournal I haven't been around much. (Speaking of, there's more of my fic on LJ at .com)**

**1998**

_There are people who tell me I shouldn't be wasting my time writing this book. They say there is too much to be rebuilt, that I am still young and strong and there is no excuse for my sitting here to write instead of helping people. _

_I disagree. _

_I don't think there is anything more important than this. I cannot bring 30 million people back to life, but I can tell my story. I can tell you about a handful of people who now number among the dead. It is a meager gift, hardly restitution for all humanity has lost. But it is all I know how to give. _

**1996**

"I can't believe this. I can't fucking believe this!"

Grace's hands grip Brac's shoulders. She used to be an accountant, soft hands and a steady job. Her hands are as littered with scars as the rest of her, now, her hold hard enough to hurt, to make him freeze.

"Brac, honey, calm down," Grace says, her voice low and gravelly. Brac remembers acrid flame, the way she screamed. The doctors said she would never speak again, and yet…

"Calm down? Goddammit! You calm down! You're not the one being punished here. We _all_ suffered in that fucking war. What makes us any different?"

Grace lets go, pacing to the window, pausing, then crossing to the counter to pick up the knife she'd been sharpening. "I don't know, Brac. But being all pissed off about it isn't going to fix anything."

Brac ignores her, running his hands through dark hair. "We should go back to Cardiff. These fucking Americans and their bullshit policies."

Grace shakes her head, testing the knife's sharpness before cutting into a cucumber. "And what would be the point of that, exactly? Sure, we could go back, if you don't mind stepping right into a war zone. I don't know about you, but I can't go back to that. I won't."

"Well it's easy for you to say," Brac snaps, sitting on the table with his hands clenched around the edges. "You don't have to worry about shit, do you? You can go settle down with some boy and not have to worry about being kicked out of the reserves. Me? I can't get laid or—better yet—be in a fucking _relationship_ because—what? The goddamn government thinks we're—how'd he say?—'bad for morale,' 's that it? Well I didn't see those bastards complaining when we were fighting those fucking Augments."

Grace puts down the knife, wiping her hands on her jeans before wrapping her arms around Brac's shoulders. "I know, sweetie. I don't know what those fuckers are thinking either, but there's nothing we can do about it."

"The hell there isn't," Brac mumbles, but he leans into the hug, and Grace's arms tighten around him.

**1997**

"Brac, honey, you have _got_ to get out of the house."

He rolls over in bed, stares at the wall. "No, I don't. Fuck off."

Grace sits on the edge of the bed, puts a hand on Brac's shoulder. He shrugs it off. "You're feeling isolated," she says, letting her hand rest on the mattress. "I get it. But you've got to let someone in, Brac. If not me, then _someone_."

Brac rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "Danny was it for me, Gracie, okay?"

She stands, brushes a hand through his hair. "Okay."

**1996**

Her throat is worse today. She takes her pills, and Brac rubs circles into her back as she dry-heaves into the sink, biting back a scream because she can still taste the smoke on her tongue, sometimes, and her insides feel like fire.

She collapses back onto him, and he catches her, sinks down against the wall. Grace feels so small, curled in his lap like a child.

"It's okay," he hears himself murmur. "It's over, Gracie. It's over."

Grace nods into his chest, breathing heavy.

**1997**

"For god's sake, Brac, you can't just sit in here all day! You never talk to me anymore. It's like—_Do something_, Brac. Christ, I don't even care, just do _something_."

"I've done it," he says, bitter. "And no one cares."

"Then _make them_," Gracie snarls. Brac hears the door slam, but he doesn't go after her.

**1998**

_I was a university student in Wales when the war started. After the news stopped broadcasting, people would say that if you ever have the chance, get to America. None of us knew why; people were saying such mad stuff back then. But we went—me, my boyfriend, and my best friend—first chance we got. _

_We joined the army, the three of us. We were stupid, idealistic kids, and we wanted to make a difference. Thought we could—I don't know, change the world, or something. Thought we could fix things. _

_Danny was killed in action eight months before the war ended. Gracie saw it all, three days before I pulled her into a med transport, five days before the doctors told her she would never speak again. _

_She proved them wrong, but we haven't talked about Danny. I'm not sure we're ready. I don't think we ever will be. _

_I loved him, more than I ever thought I could love anyone. _

_He's the reason I can no longer serve in the military. And for this, he may have saved my life. But I can't help but feel that is shallow comfort, now, when we have lost so much. Danny deserves more. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Yes, you see, I /am/ alive! And still working, I swear.**

* * *

**2054**

"Mama?"

The sky is white, cleaner than it has been in months. I don't know when I'll be able to come again, so I walk from Czyżyny to Nowa Huta in my mask and flack jacket. There's a narcie sprawled out in the gutter, hair grown long but still in his ECON fatigues. I hurry past him, not making eye contact.

Mama's room is on the fourth floor of the squat, grey building. She tells me, sometimes, that she likes the view. There isn't much to see from her window but rubble and smog. You can't even open it in the summer when the sun comes out.

"Sezja?"

Her eyes are glazed over, staring past me like I'm not even there—I'm not.

"No, Mama, it's me. You remember."

Her expression doesn't change. Never changes.

Outside, there is snow falling, and I think of all the children that will never get to play in snow. Sezja used to tell me about playing in snow. I think I would have liked it.

"Eryck? What are you doing here? Where's my Sezja? Where's my little girl?"

She's gone, Mama, I want to tell her. Long gone. But I don't. She would have hated me, once, for my pity.

Suddenly, I feel heavy. I sink into the sofa, fat and droopy, like skin and bone with nothing in between. Mama keeps looking past me.

I remember how she used to tell me stories, on nights when the sirens never went silent and I couldn't sleep. Sezja could. Sezja could sleep through anything.

She didn't tell me fairy tales; she probably didn't know any. She told me things that were true. It might shock people now, or ten years in the future, but in those days there wasn't any way to gloss over the truth. Things were hard all over.

So, she told me my story. All the way from the beginning.

**2016**

My mama was pretty, a long time ago, petite and curvy like a movie star. She had this shiny black hair and perfect red lips, and she fell in love with an army boy. He was Russian, tall with dark hair; she used to call him Peter the Great (his real name was Vasily).

She had never felt that way about anyone before, so she ran away with him, away from what was still Belarus, then. They went to Moscow.

Vasily, she used to say, was always good to her, but he did not know what to do without a gun in his hands and a bad guy to shoot. Mama had a job, a good one, but then she found out she was pregnant with Sezja. She told Vasily to get a job, to stop moping around their little apartment.

Vasily wanted to be police, but on his official record he was still a deserter, and they would not take him. Mama says this is when he started with the drugs, but of course she cannot know this for certain.

**2017**

Sezja was born in the spring, early, when the snow is still on the ground. I remember how Mama's eyes used to shine when she told this part of the story, how Sezja, who'd pretend she was too old for stories, would always tilt her head at this part, her ear close to Mama so she could hear.

Mama loved Sezja more than anything, she said. That's the way she would always tell the story. I think she wanted it to make up for everything, like some kind of penance. Later, I think it was to make sure Sezja knew, so she wouldn't leave us.

But things were hard then. The economy was bad, and Mama couldn't have a full-time job and take care of Sezja. And Vasily was no help, whether or not he was home. She hated him so much, she said, but she missed him. Sezja used to ask, then, how that could happen. And Mama would just smile a sad smile and say it isn't as hard as you would think.

But one day Mama found out about the drugs Vasily was taking, bad, bad narcotics that made his brain change. She screamed at him and hated him so much, but things were so bad, so when he offered her some to make her feel better she said yes.

Sezja always stopped listening then, not wanting to hear about how bad Mama was back then. But I would listen, every word.

**2023**

Vasily joined ECON that year, when it was just spreading out of China. Mama told us that's how they controlled their soldiers, by giving them drugs. But of course, she didn't know that then.

I remember being so mad at her in this part of the story, asking her why she didn't just leave him. And Mama would cup my cheek with her hand and say how she would never have me if she did.

I didn't realize that wasn't an answer for a very long time.

**2025**

Vasily got his gun back that year, the year Mama left him. She was pregnant with me. I don't know if that had anything to do with it, and really I'm not sure it matters. Everybody knew the war was going to start soon.

**2026**

I was born the year the war started, in a tent city near Tula. ECON was bombing the United States, and the European Union was bombing ECON, so they moved people out of Moscow and sent them to these camps. Sezja used to tell me stories about it, the way the white roofs of the tents would glint in the light like snowbanks.

I don't remember any of that. I don't remember Moscow at all, not the way Mama does. I remember rubble and concrete where Mama remembers museums and houses and streets.

This is where the story ends.

**2054 **

I stare out the window. The smog isn't so thick today; I don't think it will rain. I should be able to walk home, so long as I put my mask on.

And I think, slouched on that awful, uncomfortable couch, that maybe the reason I hate coming here so much is because it makes me remember things I can forget in Czyżyny. You can't see most of the destruction from there; from Mama's window, you can see everything.

**2036**

Somebody said the war was over. I don't know who it was, how they would know. But people started leaving the tent city, going back to what used to be Moscow. We didn't see any of them again. I don't really care to guess what happened to them.

There were so few of us left, and… Mama decided it was time to go. Not back to Moscow. I don't think that was so much because it was dangerous as because she couldn't handle the memories she left there.

**2038**

Warsaw was bad, but Krakow was mostly standing, and the radiation there wasn't so bad. So that's where we stayed.

Mama got a job in a factory, and we moved in to this tiny, one-bedroom apartment in Nowa Huta. Mama sent me to school with the refugee children. There were fifteen of us, all different ages, in this one, cold little room. Sezja would take me to class every day, holding my hand like I was a little kid, but I didn't care.

**2040 **

The war wasn't over. Not nearly.

**2044**

I was halfway out the window when I felt a hand curl around my arm.

"Eryck?"

Sezja's voice was quiet, hurt. I couldn't look at her.

"I have to get out of here, Sezja," I said, pleading.

"Come inside, Eryck, please."

I did.

**2045**

There are 293 kilometers between Warsaw and Krakow. It seemed so far, once, when I was small. It did not seem so far when a mushroom cloud turned it to dust.

We had thought we were safe. It is funny, almost, now, the way we could feel safe in the middle of a war. But that's the way it was.

I remember Mama and Sezja talking, late at night, Sezja saying we should leave, move west. Mama said everything would be fine, the European Union wasn't bombing this far west. ECON was in Asia, she said. We were safe.

Sezja and I were sitting on the fire escape when they bombed Warsaw. It was like this little flash of light in the distance, so small, but then there was this cloud, reaching like a ghost into the sky, and Sezja held me close, smelling like vanilla and fear.

**2046**

"Let me come with you, Sezja, please!" I coughed out, tugging on her arm the way I did when I was small.

"They won't let you in like that, Eryck," she said, so calm, and I hated her so much.

"Please," I whispered when my voice gave out.

Sezja put her hand on my arm, holding me back. "You know I can't, Eryck. They'll stop us before we even get to Germany, and the Greenies will kill us both."

"I'm fine, Sezja, really," I gasped out, trying to hold back the burning in my throat.

"I can't."

**2053**

I was twenty-seven the year the war ended. I don't know the details of it, except we stopped hearing about bombs going off, and then they put Colonel Green on trial for war crimes.

Poland wasn't too bad off, really, in the grand scheme of things. But Warsaw was gone, and there were these clouds of radiated smog everywhere, in all the cities. Still, it was better than the UK and the United States and China. There wasn't much left of China.

I stayed in Krakow with Mama. Where else was there for me to go?

**2054**

I don't get many visitors, especially on a day as cloudy as this. My throat is still radiation-sick, but so many have the sickness now, it doesn't matter much. But when the clouds come in heavy and thick, most people don't go out, even with the masks on.

But she does.

Her name is Romany, and she is small and dark and has a strong handshake. Her eyes are big and know too much. She frightens me, a little.

In her voice like sandpaper, she tells me she was my sister's lover.

We sit at my small table and I offer her vodka, because water is still no good to drink. She drinks it like a dying woman in the desert.

"She wanted you to know she is sorry," Romany says, clutching the cloudy glass. She will not tell me how Sezja died.

**2056**

It is too dangerous to go out, most days. The air burns my throat, and on days when it's clear there are looters and gangs in the streets. I visit Mama when I can, and Romany visits me.

She will not tell me her real name, and she will not tell me how my sister died. But she is my only friend in this desolate and desperate place.

There are no newspapers, no TV stations, no radio to tell us what is happening. Romany seems to know more than she will say, sometimes, but I have stopped trying to ask her. That is the worst part of it, the not knowing. The bodies in the street you can at least see.

**2060**

I tell Romany I want to come with her when she leaves. I want to know what she does. I want to help.

"I can not stay here any more," I say. "It will kill me."

Her dark eyes are big for a moment. Like she's looking at me the way Mama does—like I'm not me. I'm someone else.

"No, Eryck."

She doesn't come back.


End file.
